


Centenary Hunting Season

by Pinbones



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Acceptance, Alcohol, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Cigarettes, Dehumanization, Dismemberment, Gen, Monsters Eating People, Named OC - Freeform, On the surface, Paralysis, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Pacifist, Smoking, bad end turned good end, cooking human meat, cooking other monsters, domestic meal not a dinner party, eating human meat and monsters, hunting season and humans are the prey, is this what hard vore is?, moldsmal death, monster invasion, monster takeover, patriarchal families, protag is hunted for food, skeletons eating humans, temporary afterlife, the game is man, the skelebros are game hunters AU, vegetoid death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinbones/pseuds/Pinbones
Summary: On a struggling human farm on the monster-ravaged surface, it's hunting season. Two skeleton brothers catch a woman and eat her, and all she can do is watch.
Kudos: 3





	Centenary Hunting Season

Her chores were slow. She was on edge all day, waiting for noon to pass, and she found herself checking the clock far too often. Her sister and cousins gave her the side-eye but said nothing in front of her mother. Perhaps they knew.

She found an opportunity to leave after lunch and took it, grabbing her trusty bucket and running out of the farmhouse.

She was stopped at the gate.

"I need fresh water for cleaning," she told her father.

"Sure you do." He frowned and eyed her pockets for signs of hidden items. Finding nothing, he leaned forwards and checked the bucket. She showed him its empty insides.

"Don't cross the boundary line," he warned, stepping aside and opening the gate for her. "And don't wear yourself out, athlete."

Nodding, she put the bucket under her arm and jogged down the path that led south.

The run to the river wasn't so soothing today. She pushed herself to get there faster.

The yellow-green croplands at either side of the path patchworked the land for miles across the desiccated valley floor. Beyond the grids of cropland were the boundaries where Napstablooks ended and Gersons began. Both farms held a couple dozen humans, working what was left of the land under the lax gaze of their monster owners. Humans could live here, the monsters declared one day; they could grow crops and build homes and raise children. That was an almost unique luxury for humans in the age of monsters. It had been many generations since, and though many people had left to establish their own lands or join the fight, there were always people who stayed.

The earth became less tamed the further out she jogged. Soon the cropland became abnormal twists of grass, which became a black thicket between the occasional trees. She picked her way through the plants towards the rushing water. Each thorn jabbing her legs frayed her nerves more.

The river meandered back and forth across the stark lines of the Napstablooks-Gersons boundary. With the local ponds and wells saturated with magic, nobody would pay any mind if she filled her bucket at the clean riverside. And if she happened to be a little ways across the boundary and someone from either side found her, she could pretend she hadn't noticed she'd crossed the line while fetching water. Hence the bucket.

When she arrived at their spot, with a stitch in her side and an ache down her calves, she put down the bucket and collapsed onto her rock to wait for Philip.

He wouldn't be late this time, not after the letter she received last night. Panic and anger had torn at the edges of his words until his usually beautiful handwriting resembled chicken scratch. Despite their fathers' positions, all they knew was as much as everyone else, and neither could stand not knowing.

She unfolded the letter and read it again. It was already crumpled with rereads.

_Isabel,_

_I cannot find the words to express my fear. Two women are missing from Gersons: my cousin Samantha (wed last year if you remember) and the daughter of one of the outsiders. They went out in the morning to the border of Tems and did not come back in the evening. No notes have been left and nobody has seen them since, nor is there any trace of attack by animals. The Tems patriarch is not responding to my letters. Mother says nothing like this has happened for generations but refused to say more._

_Now all of our women are kept in sight of the men, and nobody is to leave the farmhouse without company. But your father still allows your women to wander and my father agrees with his decision. Why? What do they know that I won't for many more years._

_Whatever threatens us surely threatens you. Be safe, do not approach Tems land. Meet tomorrow. Bring cigs and your wits._

Something cracked in a nearby copse of trees, like twigs underfoot.

She crumpled the letter and threw it into the water. She grabbed her bucket and slowly filled it, doing her innocent performance: just a farm girl getting water, no need to get suspicious.

Nobody called out to her from the trees to ask what she was doing across the border. When the bucket was full and she couldn’t pretend anymore, she straightened up and faced where the noise had come from.

She couldn't see anyone. The trees were thin and sparse, and the thick brush ended thigh-height. If there was a person standing among the trees, she'd see them.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms. She wasn’t on her own land, sure, but she was miles from the Tems border at the other side of Gersons. Surely whatever trouble they were having couldn't be on this border too.

She waited, watching and listening. Her heart pounded.

It came again -- a crackling, not of twigs being stepped on, but something moving through the brittle brush. She thought she saw something move.

Was a person crouching there? Philip wouldn't frighten her for a joke, not after everything he'd written in that shaky handwriting. But someone was here. She peered into the bushes.

Through the foliage, she saw eyes.

She dropped the bucked and ran towards the crop fields.

Something followed.

The thorny brush ripped at her legs and shoes, slowing her down, until she reached the edge of the thicket and broke out running across the field. Her feet stumbled and caught on the thick, tangled grass of the untamed land.

Nature was holding her back but she was good at running. Always had been. Philip never was, but maybe they're not after him. Maybe he's safe. Maybe he's running to his father right now to tell him about strangers at the border and she's only got to get home before they catch her. Then everyone in Napstablooks and Gersons would be safe. She was already back over the boundary lines, now all she had to do was run.

She looked only in front of her, making sure she didn't crash into a thorny plant or drop an ankle into a rabbit-hole. When a shape moved at the edge of her vision she didn't look around, just ran faster, pumped her legs and arms harder.

But she was tired. She'd hurried here, desperate to be at Philip's side, and she'd exhausted her body.

But the path was within reach. The land opened up there. Nobody would follow her and she could double her speed. If she ran faster, through the burning pain in her legs and sides and lungs, she could make it.

A hand clasped her soul and _pulled_.

She tipped back, dragged by a phantom force. Her body tripled in weight and she slammed to the ground.

She lay on her back, dizzy, blood rushing in her ears, her body more ripped up with exertion than it ever had been.

Grass and twigs crunched, getting closer.

She was not giving up. Her body was too heavy to sit up. She twisted and pulled at the ground, muscles straining to turn her body over, fists pulling up grass, heart pounding louder than the footsteps approaching her.

She got on her stomach. She tried to push herself up but her body got heavier. A clump of grass pressed into her face.

"Got one," a man's voice called. A stranger.

Heavier footsteps made short work of the grass.

"she looks feisty." A deeper voice joined him.

"She's down."

"make sure of that."

A knee drove into the small of her back, swift and firm. It surged with energy.

A cold power flooded her body with ice. Her limbs chilled through and numbness sank in swift as a tide. If she couldn't feel the grass on her face and the knee in her back, she'd think she had plummeted into icewater. She tried to fight but she was so tired, and everything was still so heavy, and the numbness took away the sensation in her fingers. She couldn't do anything but strain weakly.

"Got her on ice."

"bag her."

The knee disappeared and rough hands grabbed her. The stranger lifted her in a practised fireman's carry. Her arms dangled, limp and useless. She tried to grab at the man holding her, but the freezing numbness was spreading fast and her wrists failed her. Her elbows hardly responded. She kicked weakly.

"don't let her kick, now."

"She's under."

The ground travelled fast underneath her. The man carrying her wore hunter's boots and had a long stride. She caught sight of another pair of feet at the corner of her vision, more boots, the other man.

Could nobody from home see her being stolen? Could nobody from Gersons see either?

They took her limp body back over the boundary to Gersons, through the thicket towards the river. Terrified, she listened out for any sign of Philip and his father’s men. She heard nothing.

Instead of crossing the river, the hunters took a hard turn and headed downstream. Her heart dropped.

She’d never followed the river but she knew what lay ahead: another boundary, this one leading to the Outside. According to tales, the Outside was filled with hundreds of monster nests.

The hunters stealing her must be monsters.

She tried to fight again but the numbness had set in head to toe. She couldn't move a single joint. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even mumble.

The man carrying her spoke, his voice cautious. "Reckon Napstablook knows we hunted across boundary lines?"

"shh. no. just say we got her from gerson's land."

Something in her mind clicked. Not Gersons, but Gerson's. Not a crop farm, but a human farm.

And they used the word ‘hunted’... she was now the third missing woman this week. The last disappearances had happened generations ago, but could they be connected? People taken from the human farms... not ‘farms belonging to humans’ but instead…?

No, it couldn't be that.

They didn't walk much further. Far away, she heard the strange sounds of what must be monster life: growls, calls, and the sound of machines. She hadn’t known monsters used machines. Something shrieked and a group of wolfmen howled. The two men couldn’t be human.

The ground beneath them turned stony and level as they stepped onto a path for monsters. She couldn’t imagine that a single human had ever travelled this path of their own volition. They turned down a fork in the path, and another. The sounds of monster life grew louder.

“home sweet home,” the other man said, and went on ahead. He unlocked and opened a door to a domicile. Monster nests had doors?

The man carrying her eased her through the doorway and into the house. She heard her shoes bang against the door jamb.

Electric lights flicked on. Where was she? Farmhouses around the valley were made of wood and used charcoal for fuel; these floors were made of polished stone tile, the walls were drywall, and cables ran along the edges of the rooms. Devices hummed.

This was a modern monster's house, as advanced and luxurious as human houses used to be before the Breaking of the Barrier, when humans populated every inch of the earth. This house might have belonged to a human hundreds of years ago.

She was carried into a room with a concrete floor. He set her down.

Her body rolled. She saw their faces.

Skulls bore down on her, both of them grinning, both of them filled with pride and hunger. The faces of monsters. The faces of hunters.

Behind their heads, an electric light blazed on a white ceiling. A wide metal frame like a coat hanger dangled from a chain on a winch.

The tall one with the long face, the one who carried her here on his shoulders, reached up and attached something to either end of the metal frame. They were like cuffs, she realised with a chill.

Not a word could pass her lips. Her breaths were laboured and shallow like the breaths of a dying man. Even her eyes struggled to move.

"Help me strip her down."

They untied her shoes and yanked them off, and her socks, and undid her belt. Her mind was a storm of panic and fear. Her eyes rolled about in her skull. Her fingers would not lift to help her.

They stripped her like a mannequin and folded her clothes.

The tall one pulled a half-empty packet of cigarettes from hidden in her bra. "Ah, a smoker." He grinned.

"her lungs will be rancid." 

"Eh." He plucked one out and put it in his teeth, staring down at her body, not with the eye of a lascivious man but the critical eye of a hunter. A magic flame curled from his fingertip and caught the cigarette's tip alight.

He took a drag of the cigarette and exhaled, smoke seeping out from his nose-hole and between his teeth. "Let's get her hanging."

Hanging? From the frame? Another bolt of fear shot through her heart. Was she going to be tortured?

“Help me with the chain.”

"eh? you tired or something?"

"Fine, Sans. Just stand there. You don't get fed tonight."

 _Fed_.

"i'll help, i'll help."

'Sans' walked to the edge of the room and loosened the other end of the chain, feeding slack through to lower the frame. The other monster lifted her feet up. The shackles closed around her ankles, holding her feet shoulder-length apart, and he stepped back. He gestured.

Sans grunted as he heaved the chain. The frame jolted and she was hitched upwards by her feet. Her body dangled, arms trailing on the floor.

"Keep going, I'll tell you when."

Another grunt. She rose again until her hands didn't touch the ground.

"That's fine."

The chains clanked again. Sans reappeared. Her head dangling, she could only see their legs again, and her limp arms swaying uselessly. The blood was rushing to her head and making her dizzy.

They walked around the room, leaving her hanging naked. She could only imagine what they were fetching to use on her. What would monsters want with a living human, anyway?

A loud clatter alerted her to something moving. Sans wheeled in a round metal wash-tub on its side, tipped it upright, and dragged it underneath her. The sound of metal on concrete sent nails into her pounding head.

She was dangling from her ankles above a metal tub.

They were going to bleed her like a pig.

Another shot of adrenaline surged through her and she fought like the devil, but all she managed to do was vaguely twitch her frigid body at the mid-section. Her arms swayed.

"papyrus. this one's a fighter."

'Papyrus' joined him, wearing a long white apron. "You want to do it?"

"yeah, give it here. this one was trouble, i want to see her bleed."

Bone clicked on metal. Something pressed against the underside of her chin. Her heart skipped.

"Wait a second."

"for what?" The blade eased.

"Look at her, she won't drain right. Look from this angle."

Sans crouched and tilted his head. She could see his face, wide and toothy. He didn't look her in the eye.

"hold her hair back."

Papyrus gathered her hair in a ponytail and yanked it. Her head was jerked back until her chin was the lowest point of her body. All she could see was the basin her life would soon seep into.

The blade returned and it sank in swift. The dullest of pains was all she could feel through the numbness. Blood clattered against the metal basin in a jet. He drew the blade across her skin until her throat gaped, the hand in her hair pulling the wound wider.

Her heart, not comprehending her slit throat, pounded all the blood from her body. Blood rained out, now splashing in the pool of blood. How much had she lost? Her heart kept its pace, determined to beat until her veins ran dry.

The blood poured down her chin and ran into the basin. Her life ran with it. All those years on this earth, she was fattening for slaughter. All her work, all her dreams, they were nothing now. She became meat.

The basin filled. Blood, to her, had existed so far only in seeps and stains. Seeing an amount sit inside a vessel was absurd. Seeing it and knowing it was her own, and knowing she would soon be dead, were thoughts too heavy for her nerves.

Papyrus touched the blood with his finger and took it out, like a sample.

"Good bleed. The spell worked, and the blood's down to temperature… hmm."

He dipped again in the pool of her bleedout.

"what's up?"

"Tastes different."

"how so? chemical?"

"No idea. It's nothing like the humans on Gerson's land." From the sound, he was tapping himself on the teeth. "And remember, we didn't see her when we scouted the farm."

"ah, and the cigarettes. she's a border-hopping smuggler." He rapped his knuckles on her chest. "lungs might be good meat after all."

"She must have come to meet the boy, to give him the cigarettes."

"he was a slippery one. never seen a human swim like that."

Something like relief, something like hope, touched her soul. Philip was alive.

Papyrus tugged harder on her hair, widening the gash. "Undyne will get him."

"a woman's better for a centenary anyways. less gamey."

"If everyone takes females, their populations won't bounce back. You want to wait 200?"

Sans grunted.

Centenary. For generations. Their populations. So that's what she was: a culled member of wild game, the unlucky doe shot by the hunter in open season.

As the blood left her, so did her consciousness, and her last thought was a lament for her life and body. Her vision blurred and blackened. The pain began to fade.

The blood running into the basin slowed to a trickle that echoed around the room.

The pain was gone. The sensations of being frozen, dangled, pulled, torn, all were gone.

Now, she felt nothing but the end of her own life.

And she kept feeling it. The blood still trickled and echoed. The room still smelled of salt and copper, bleach and rubber, Philip's cigarettes.

She could still see, only now she saw herself.

A pale and terrified woman -- no, a carcass -- hung by her ankles from a frame on a chain. She swung slightly, the lingering ghost of activity. Her throat was a gaping red patch of gore, and blood dripped from her chin. The pool of blood in the basin was inches thick.

She was here, though her body was dead.

Sans entered, flipping a knife and catching it over and over. That knife was a tough hunter's knife, a butcher's knife. He had an apron on now. He examined the blood dripping from her body and nodded to himself.

He angled the knife between her sternum and her collarbones and drove it into her chest. He pointed the blade out and began to cut through the sternum. Butchering her like a hog.

Papyrus brought in another basin. He switched the two between drips of blood, dragging away the filled basin and letting the blood plink into the new one. He rubbed his hands together.

"I’ll bottle the blood. Get her portioned up."

Her body was being dismembered. Sans was cutting open her abdomen, pulling her ribs open like doors on a rusty cupboard, while Papyrus transferred the blood into jugs. They performed their jobs with all the familiarity and comfort of an old hobby while she was stuck, watching, unable to do anything, unable to feel anything.

She was just a soul, unable to leave her corpse behind.

Sans set down his knife and selected a bonesaw from a rack of tools. "hold her head."

Papyrus stepped over the basin and held her head still while Sans readied a bonesaw at her neck's gash.

She couldn't look away. She couldn't experience anything other than what was happening to her body.

He sawed through her neck steadily. Blood wetted the newly exposed flesh but she was no longer a faucet for blood; when her head came apart from her body and landed in the basin with a clang, the stump of her neck barely trickled.

Sans gutted her next, letting her organs flop out of her open chest. He cut the dangling ones free and they slopped into the basin.

Why was she still here? Was this the first step to being a ghost? Did her body need to rot for her to be free? Did she need to be eaten?

Papyrus rescued some organs from the basin and carried them through the door.

Sans worked on her gutted husk, carving the skin from the meat and the muscles into cuts. She never watched when the men at the farm did this to game. This time she couldn't look away. He took her apart like a person dismantling a jigsaw piece by piece. Papyrus hurried in and out to collect the pieces.

He wasn't done when he had all the big chunks of meat off. Whistling, Sans sawed her ribs from her spine and bagged them. He cut the spine off, tossed it in the basin, and separated her legs by sawing through her pelvis.

Sans lowered the chain until he could reach the cuffs. He picked up the bonesaw again and cut through her ankles, leaving her feet in the frame. He carried her legs through to the kitchen and her consciousness followed.

The kitchen-cum-dining room was bright and modelled old human homes. The appliances were shiny metal and the furniture was hardwood, and nothing looked hundreds of years old.

Papyrus was busy with kitchen knives and a huge wooden cutting board. He cut her muscles into fillets and chunks for cooking. Her eyes followed to where he tossed the gristle. A bucket sat on the kitchen floor. Her bucket. Filled with her offcuts, her skin, her waste, the bits of her that a monster would not eat. Dimly she wondered if a pig would eat it.

When he finally had all her pieces trimmed perfectly, he washed his hands and left the room. His footsteps bounded up a staircase. Her consciousness hung over the meat selection. Sans went back to deal with the bits of her left in the butchering room.

He soon returned with a change of clothes, dressed for a dinner party. He put another apron on, this one bearing the words _Licence to Grill_ , and rubbed his hands together.

The gas burners roared into life. She remembered his cigarette, which was stubbed out in an ashtray nearby. She knew how he lit the gas, not with a lighter like the farmhands, not with precious wooden matches like her mother, but with a lick of magic from his finger.

Sans came in, rinsed his hands, and meandered upstairs to get changed.

Papyrus rolled up his sleeves and got to cooking.

He slit open and gored her heart, tossed the stringy bits in her bucket, and packed the hollow shell of her heart with herbs and onion stuffing. He wrapped it in twine to keep it from splitting open. He placed it in a casserole dish.

Sans returned, not in dinner party clothes so much as lazy-casual, and sat down in the dining room.

Papyrus gestured to a sack of ingredients. "Get off your ass and pass me a vegetoid."

Sans grumbled and stood, rolled his shoulders, and rejoined Papyrus in the kitchen. He dug an arm into the sack.

What he pulled out wasn't a potato or a carrot, but a strange brown turnip. It was an odd size. It had eyes. It blinked.

He passed it to Papyrus, who chopped off its top with one swift movement. The vegetable shuddered and flexed, then lay still.

"Pass me another couple."

Sans gave him two more. One of them writhed in his hand, eyes rolling, top quivering. Their tops were chopped off and they, too, shuddered and perished. Papyrus chopped them into rough chunks and tossed them in the casserole dish around her stuffed heart. Sans passed him a jug of stock and he poured it in. Papyrus left Sans to season the dish and turned to his pans.

They were eating more than her heart tonight. He cut her smokeless lungs into chunks and threw them in a pan with oil, lard from her body, herbs, onion, celery. A splash of white wine. Her liver got similar treatment. Her kidneys too, but in red wine, with strange and pulsing mushrooms that writhed when sliced. His methods and recipes would not be out of place in a grandmother's kitchen. She could imagine being a guest and watching them cook, and never knowing that the meat used to have a name and a future.

Another pan joined the hobs, and another.

"Fetch me the sweetbreads."

Sweetbreads, was that word familiar...?

Sans left to deal with another piece of her. A crack soon echoed through the house, and another, and another.

Her brains. He cracked open her skull and pulled out her brains. Sweetbreads was what her grandmother called a calf's brains when she fried them.

Her sweetbreads weren't fried. They were boiled in vinegar-water and grilled.

And it wasn't just her organs that the monsters planned to eat tonight. Papyrus picked out some muscle.

"make mine well-done."

"Absolutely not. Yours will be medium."

He melted blue butter in a pan and fried up a steak of her. She got to play her first round of a very morbid game: which part of me is he cooking? She guessed, from its size, a slice of her thigh.

He added another large steak (from her other thigh?) and fried them together, flipping them, acting far too close to the mundane cooking of any old cut of meat. The aroma was pork-like. She might as well have never been human at all.

He lifted the steaks, one smaller and firmer and darker than the other, onto the plates. He hummed while he worked, like he was a gentle mother, an everyday homebody.

To the juices and oil left in the pan, he added sliced onion, garlic, a dash of wine, a helping of her blood.

"don't make it too rich, now."

"No backseat cooking."

He chopped up more chunks of her muscle and tossed them in with salt and herbs. He turned the heat up and left the brew to simmer. It filled the air with a saltier meatiness.

There were more muscles, many more. She guessed arms, shins, the long thin pieces shaved off the inside of her torso… she recognised her own ribs, now without skin, and they were simmered in more blood sauce. Now that the shock had faded, the process was bizarrely peaceful, like mourning herself.

From her carcass to the chopping block, and from the block to the pans, to the plates, to the table, her eyes followed. There were a dozen courses.

This was what she was now: many gorgeously prepared meals covering a dining table, ready to be consumed. And she didn't want to look away.

She expected guests to arrive anytime soon to share her body, and the thought gave her a shiver that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Nobody came, and when they set the table for two, she understood their intent to consume every part of her themselves.

Sans poured their wine, a deep red, and Papyrus poured into each glass a dash of her blood.

They sat down at the table, leaving still more dishes to stew away on the stove. Surrounded by plates of meat and glasses of blooded wine, they basked in the rich scents of good ingredients and cooked Isabel.

They clinked their glasses together. “to our fifth centenary dinner.”

If she still had breath, she'd have held it.

They took their first bites.

Sans's forkful of lung was large. "gorgeous," he groaned, and shoveled in more.

"Of course it is," Papyrus said, but he glowed with the praise. The first meal he chose was a hunk of thigh-steak, cooked rare, and he closed his eyes when he tasted it.

They savoured every inch of her. Chatter was limited. They ate fast, flicking aside vegetables to force more meat on their forks. Their hunger didn't seem to lessen… if anything, it grew.

Dish after dish passed in swift forkfuls between conversation. Her heart, they paused to slice up and share. When they pressed the meat into their mouths, they wore expressions of ecstasy, and she felt something that was almost warmth.

She wondered about the bits they didn't process. Her eyes, her stomach, her tongue, what would come of them? Waste, like the tops of those living vegetables? And what about her fingers, her face? Her feet still in those cuffs, her marrow in her very bones? She couldn't bear the thought of edible pieces of herself rotting, uncooked and unsavoured.

Eventually the plates at the table were empty. Papyrus rushed to the kitchen to dish up the remaining food. Sans shuffled in his seat, eyes on the food in the kitchen.

Papyrus hurried back with a plate of food in each hand and set them down.

Sans reached for his plate.

"Wait a minute," Papyrus snapped.

Sans huffed but waited, eyes flicking between her ribs and the kitchen's dishes.

She'd never felt so wanted.

Papyrus returned with more dishes and even more. He also presented a wriggly green Jell-o, which gave Sans a laugh. The Jell-o rose and sank like a breathing creature. When Papyrus lifted a knife, it trembled hard. He cut it into chunks and drizzled it in the last of her blood, plated it, and served it.

He sat down. They dug in again while she watched.

Sans tried her ribs. "tender," he murmured. She felt a buzz of happiness in her soul.

It was the last word spoken until they were done. There was no time for conversation between the huge bites they took. They hummed, they smiled, but they didn't say a thing. They didn't have to.

She watched herself disappear into the mouths of these monsters until there was nothing of her left.

And she was satisfied. She had been worth it. Her life had been worth it.

Sans glanced about. "next course?"

Papyrus shook his head. "Only the soul is left."

"ah." He leaned forwards in his chair. "you had the lion's share last time, if i remember correctly."

"You don't. And I'm cutting off seventy-five percent this time."

"for me?"

"You get the quarter."

"you're starving me here."

"After I cook all day?"

"we hunted her together, i butchered her and i even helped in the kitchen."

"That's why you're getting any at all. How about we split it sixty-forty?"

"sixty to me?"

She was in ecstasy.

Her soul was the culmination of her being, the only living part of her that remained. Both men, after so amicably sharing their bounty of meat with each other, were squabbling over her soul like children with a candy bar.

Papyrus sighed. "Fine. We'll split it fifty-fifty _this time_."

He reached out and caught her in one hand. He took his sauce-wet steak knife and slit her soul through the middle.

In that moment, she felt the last pain and the last joy she'd ever feel, and the most intense.

The pieces of her soul went down quick. They drank their wine and the world faded to comfortable black.


End file.
